


Saturday Morning

by Kavi Leighanna (kleighanna)



Series: Avery'verse [1]
Category: Rookie Blue
Genre: F/M, Family, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:26:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleighanna/pseuds/Kavi%20Leighanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Sam goes grocery shopping with his daughters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine your OTP going grocery shopping together as their small child tries to help them by pushing around one of those kiddie shopping carts. (via imagineyourotp on Tumblr)
> 
> *I've screwed with the prompt a bit. You'll see.
> 
> *Also? Sam's probably way too sweet for his own good. He's a hard one.

As a general rule, Sam hates shopping with other people.

As it is, grocery shopping is a chore, rather than an enjoyable experience. He goes with a list, makes his way through the store like he's clearing a house, and leaves as soon as possible.

Especially on Saturday mornings.

Thing is, they've been on weird shifts for two weeks and they're lucky enough to have scored a Saturday off to spend with the girls. They have no food in the house (they'd eaten the last boxes of Kraft Dinner the previous night, Andy wrinkling her nose the whole time) and Andy's been having the worst time with pregnancy number three.

( _Three._

Three kids.

It still boggles his mind.)

So.

He'd left her sleeping (she's been sleeping like the dead for this pregnancy), fed the girls and packed them into the truck. They'd chattered in some weird sibling language the whole way to Loblaw, happy as can be.

Actually, it makes him feel pretty confident that this trip is going to go off without a hitch. Avery's always a little angel with her daddy, so Sam's sure she'll stand on the end of the cart like she's been doing since she became too big for the baby seat. Two-year-old Katie will be content with a dog cookie and an ongoing view of her dad.

(Andy hates that he does that, gives the girls dog cookies. Doesn't know where the hell he got the trick from. He thinks maybe she's just jealous that he found a trick to make grocery shopping with his kids almost calm. It's not like he does it all the time anyway.)

Turns out, he'd overestimated.

Avery's eyes light up the minute they're in the store and headed to the carts. She lets go of his hand (and even six years later his heart leaps whenever she does that) and races to a handful of tiny little carts. Just her size.

"Daddy! Look!"

He sees them. Yup. Definitely sees them. And sees his calm and efficient shopping trip go up in smoke. "Not today," he says. If it was a calm weekday, when there's no one in the store, neither he nor Andy have a problem with letting Avery push one of those damned kiddie carts. On a Saturday? Loblaw is stuffed and chaotic. He's going to have a hard enough time navigating the aisles, let alone having Avery wandering on her own. He just wants to get in, out, and back to his suffering wife.

(Yeah. That's the other thing that still boggles him. She married him.  _Married him_.)

Thing is Avery's pouting. Not even halfway either. It's a full lower lip thing that he's sure his first-born picked up from her mother. It's the thing he can't say no to, not with Andy, and definitely not when it's pointed up at him in miniature. He squeezes Katie by accident trying to resist the look and she squawks and frowns at him. Great. Both his kids.

Yeah, he can feel himself giving in.

Jesus, he's a sucker. It's depressing.

(He doesn't mind being a sucker for his kids. Like. Really doesn't mind.)

"Ave," he says, bending down to her level. He's never liked talking to her from above. It's a little unbalanced with Katie, but. "You stick close. You don't wander off. If you can't see me, I can't see you."

He's pretty sure he'll always be able to see the little yellow flag, even in the Saturday morning chaos of a massive grocery store, but Avery's nodding solemnly. For all she looks like Andy, she's got the same serious demeanor as him. (It has nothing to do with demeanor, actually. She's old enough to understand what it means to be a police officer and that her parents worry about her more than most. It's scary how much she understands, but she's smart, his kid.)

Avery's grinning like a kid at Christmas. Sam wants to groan. She knows all his buttons, this kid, and he knows he gave in way too fast. Thing is, he just wants this trip done. Andy's at home.

"Too!" Katie squeals in his ear, bouncing against his hip. "Too!"

"No," Sam says, voice hard. It's his dad voice, his TO voice, the one that says 'this is the way it's gonna be'. Katie pouts, but doesn't argue. He presses a kiss to her temple. "Let's get you a cookie."

She brightens at that and lets him hook her into the child seat at the front of an adult cart. Avery takes her time, trying to find the one that won't trip her up. The girls don't usually get to come, or if they do it's one at a time. Avery takes her shopping trips as seriously as he does.

When she's finally picked a cart, and Katie's very seriously and carefully holding the list (she'll forget she's got it and drop it, but she likes the little bit of responsibility. Sam keeps a copy on his phone) they're off.

They hit the pet aisle first, to get Katie her cookie, then it's off to produce. They pick up bread ("Get crusty bread too," she'd told him last night when they were building their list, all bossy. "And the PC Kraft Dinner. White. It's cheaper and tastes better." God he loves her.)

There's no trouble until they hit the cereal aisle.

He and Andy have been trying to stay away from sugar cereals. It's not a health thing, not really, because even a marriage and two-point-five kids in, Andy's favourite snack is dried Frosted Flakes, but they're trying to teach Avery and Katie that sugar is not a breakfast food. Snack, yes. Breakfast, no.

But. Avery goes right for the kids' cereals, lifting a bright red Lucky Charms box from the shelf. "Cereal?"

"Ave, no." They've kept the girls to Cheerios so far ("Good baby food," Andy had told him when Avery was just switching to solids.) with the odd cup of dried Frosted Flakes for a before bed snack.

"Daddy! Stephanie gets to eat leprechauns for breakfast."

Stephanie. Bloody Stephanie. The kid's been the bane of Andy and Sam's parenting since she became Avery's best friend. Her parents are a little more lax on when sugar is and isn't a good idea.

Not that Sam's critiquing.

Truly.

"No," he repeats, grabbing a box of Cheerios. He smiles as he leans over Katie, hearing her humming to herself. Once Katie's got a cookie, she's off in her own world for the duration of the trip. So much so she's usually startled when Sam has to pluck her out of the cart.

Avery's pouting again. "Daddy-"

"No, Avery," he repeats. "Cheerios."

"Mommy doesn't eat Cheerios."

"Mommy's an adult." Sometimes. One of the things he still loves best about the woman is the bouts of childishness she still goes through.

(He can vividly remember coming home from shift to find her eating handfuls of Frosted Flakes straight out of the box. He found crumbs in the couch for weeks. Or that time, when she was four months pregnant with Avery, she'd dragged him out of the house in the middle of the night, just to make ridiculous snow angels in a nearby park the first time there was enough snow. It was freezing.)

"Please? Just once? I won't eat them for breakfast."

She'll sneak them. She's done it before. Her Halloween candy was half gone way too fast before either he or Andy figured it out. Little imp.

"No," he repeats. "Final answer."

She whines. "But Daddy-"

"Avery." His voice is low. Hard. Her little spine straightens reflexively, then relaxes in disappointment. She trudges back to put the cereal on the shelf and Sam bites his mouth against a grin. What a drama queen. But, when she reaches for the Cheerios, Katie grins widely.

"O's!" she cheers.

It makes Avery smile. Sam kisses her chubby little cheek.

In consolation, he lets Avery pick out an ice cream. Neopolitan, like a true kid, and he throws chocolate and pistachio into the cart. (It's been one of Andy's pregnancy cravings this time around, pistachio anything. He's been ribbing her about it the whole time.) It's a lot of ice cream, but they take their time going through it. He's not really that worried.

He lets Avery empty her own tiny cart onto the conveyor belt before he starts loading the rest. Groceries are one of the more money-eating expenses in their family, but Sam's big on fresh fruits and veggies. They don't always have time to do much with them, but he tries.

(And by tries, he cuts it all up into little Tupperware containers on his days off. The girls jump for them every time the fridge opens. He feels like a good Daddy.)

Even with her momentary return to the real world, Katie squeaks, like usual, when he pulls her from the cart to plop her in her carseat. She grins up at him, waving her slobbered remains of the cookie. He grins back, kisses her forehead.

They sing Disney songs all the way home and Sam can't be bothered to be embarrassed.

All in all, it's a pretty successful trip.

He means to warn the girls that Mom might still be sleeping. Really he does. Thing is, Avery's always too damn fast and she's pushing through the door the minute he has it unlocked.

"Av-"

"Mommy!"

Well. Best laid plans.

Turns out he has nothing to worry about. Andy's sprawled over the couch, baby bump visible under the stretchy cotton tank she's chosen. (He knows for a fact she wasn't wearing clothes last night. He made sure of that.) Avery crawls right up next to her, makes Andy shift to give her space. She smiles, bright and happy, when he hands Katie over.

"Groceries," he says, just under Avery's chatter as he leans in to kiss her. It turns into a long drawn out one. Sometimes he can't help it. He just – His  _wife_.

Her eyes light up. She hates shopping as much as he does, but she gets a kick like a kid at Christmas over what he brings home. (He tries to surprise her. Brings something back he wouldn't normally. Little present for them to try.) "I'll help."

"Nuh uh," he replies, already shaking his head. She's been a little touch and go with moving this time around. Vertigo and nausea. He's hoping it'll pass by month five. He hates watching it. Makes him feel helpless and like they shouldn't be having a third if this is what it does to her. Andy punches him whenever he brings it up.

Mostly, he just piles them just inside the front door. They'll end up in the kitchen eventually. It's just – hard to do anything when he knows Andy's in the midst of a dogpile with his girls.

(He's secretly hoping this one'll be a boy. They haven't found out yet. He's just, well. Sick of being outnumbered.)

When he gets back to the living room, Katie's nestled down against her side, Avery bouncing about around her legs. He grins, plucks his eldest from his wife's knees and settles in, Andy's feet across his lap, listening to Avery detail the whole trip.

Later, when she's sitting on the floor, rearranging the fridge, he looks down from putting the Cheerios in the cupboard. "How're you feeling?"

She turns her head, this way and that. "Never like this."

"McNally-"

"Sam." She holds her hands out, face terrible serene for someone who totally threw her cookies when she saw the celery stalk.

He gets her up, of course, and she leans into him for a moment, just taking in his scent and him.

"I'm good," she says, sliding her fingers up his spine. "Wouldn't change it."

His heart swells in the worst teddy bear way. Jesus, this woman. Right when he thinks there can't be more, she proves him totally wrong and undercuts his bad boy cop he spent years perfecting.

Sometimes, he thinks he shouldn't have this.

Sometimes he thinks that this should not be his life, that he shouldn't have her, that none of this is real.

Sometimes, he just looks at his life, shakes his head, and remembers he's a damn lucky SOB.


End file.
